


Primal Emotion

by thescribblenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospital Scenes, Non-graphic depictions of violence, argument, because that's clearly the best way to go about it, plausible hurt/comfort, stress relieving via shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2402864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You nearly got yourself fucking killed you arse!” Greg’s practically screaming at Sherlock, the words hurled across at the younger man like rocks.</p><p>“Oh please, Lestrade, don’t try that one. As if that’s of any consequence.” Sherlock returns, tone like acid. “What is far more poignant, is that you nearly took my stab wound.”</p><p>“Your stab wound?! What, are you building a collection, now? Hoping to become one big scar?”</p><p>***</p><p>In the aftermath of a case that injured both Greg and John as well as Sherlock, some truths are spoken and demands made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primal Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly posted so you all knew I hadn't died on you. Haven't been here in a while, that cursed thing known as life happened. 
> 
> I'm not actually sure what brought this on. Hm. 
> 
> I do not own, nor do I profit from, anything you recognise in this fic. I have given up hope on the BBC hiring me, and am planning to steal the rights as we speak...not.

“You nearly got yourself _fucking killed_ you _arse!”_ Greg’s practically screaming at Sherlock, the words hurled across at the younger man like rocks.

“Oh _please_ , Lestrade, don’t try that one. As if that’s of any consequence.” Sherlock returns, tone like acid. “What is far more poignant, is that you nearly took _my_ stab wound.”

“ _Your_ stab wound?! What, are you building a collection, now? Hoping to become one big scar?”

“That is both preposterous and intriguing.”

“You can’t just _do that!”_

“Why not? John is of far more consequence than myself-“

“Ha! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He’s a _doctor_ , a doctor _trained in combat_ , if you tried stopping and thinking for a second, you’d realise how vital that is in this line of work.”

“And you’re the brains, the very heart and soul of the case!”

“Don’t try that. It won’t work.”

“You have no right to jeopardise the investigation like that! Without you, it’d all go to hell in one massive fucking _handbasket_ , and we’d be left treading water, trying to find the tiny connection you never told us.” Greg realises Sherlock’s inevitable reaction to that a split-second before it happens. One by one, the defences visibly slam down, shutting off the rest of the world. Sherlock’s eyes sharpen to shards of glass, his head twisting in a way so utterly reptilian that Greg takes a mental step back.

“I have no _right?_ ” He questions dangerously. “No _right_? Right to what? Live my life the way I choose? Since when did I become the Yard’s _puppet_ , Lestrade?”

“You know I didn’t mean that-“

“Oh but you _did_. You meant every word.” Sherlock’s stood with his hand on his hip, a half exasperated, half ‘ _I-will-end you’_ smile tugging at his lips. He turns away from Greg for a second, spinning back with one hand raised in a fruitless gesture.

“That’s all I am, to you lot, isn’t it? A brain. An intelligent, observant, freakishly detached brain for you to pull out of the cupboard when you can’t handle the puzzle yourselves.”

Greg opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock’s on a roll now, each syllable delivered like a silver bullet, alarming in its speed, the danger it poses, and yet morbidly fascinating.

“You don’t ever consider that I might be busy, that I might have something better to do, something more important. It never crosses your puny minds that I might be unable to help, might not be able to do your jobs for you. You never stop to consider that I regularly put my life on the line-“

“Never bothered you before.” Greg butts in angrily, remembering all the times he’s pleaded with Sherlock to look after himself more. Resentment builds up in his core, poisonous and ugly.

“ _Never bothered me before-?_ ” Sherlock laughs, incredulous. “I _do_ have survival instinct, actually. I don’t _enjoy_ getting hurt, I’m not some masochistic drone.”

“Then why put yourself out there? Why throw yourself in front of a bullet? Or that knife, today?”

“Oh no, I am _not_ falling for that.” Sherlock snarls, turning away again viciously. Greg sighs, running a hand over his face.

“What if I actually asked? Properly, I mean.”

Sherlock scoffs, not looking at him. He glares out the window, and by all rights, the heat of his gaze should be melting the glass pane of the window. Greg comes to stand next to him, noticing that Sherlock shrinks away ever so slightly. He folds his arms, becomes smaller. Draws himself impossibly taller. The DI looks out the window, watching the city come alive in the early hours of the morning. The dark sky gradually lightens, scarlet and gold threads weaving over the cityscape to create an intricate and eye-catching sunrise. Clouds above it gain the stony, impenetrable grey colour attributed to London, the one that everyone complains about but secretly hoards close in their memories.

“Why _did_ you do it?”

“He’s John. He still has things to do.” Sherlock replies easily, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Greg nods his understanding, neither man making eye contact.

“He’s your best friend, and you don’t want to lose him. He’s survived losing _you_ before, so he can withstand it again.”

“Precisely.”

“Wrong.” Greg doesn’t inflect his tone with anything, and yet Sherlock’s death-glare is fixed on him again in an instant. “John wouldn’t survive losing you again, Sherlock. Nor would Mrs Hudson. They’d know that this time, there was no going back, that you wouldn’t waltz back in again, to be punched or hugged. They’d know that, and it would destroy them. Or maybe they’d hope, and slowly, that hope would be crushed. And Mycroft would know that there wasn’t a back-up plan this time, that he couldn’t save you from the monsters in the dark. And that would destroy him. Are you willing to put them through that?”

Sherlock muttered something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _wouldn’t be my problem_ ’, but the low tone and volume concede to Greg’s point.

“And I wouldn’t be great about it, either, just so you know.” The DI adds. Sherlock shoots him a sharp-eyed look, picking up the details and joining the dots.

“You’d all be fine. You’d have each other. Isn’t that supposed to count for something?” He asks, frustrated, running hand through his hair and taking refuge in pretending not to understand.

“Yes, a support network of people in a similar state of decline. Brilliant.” Greg quips scathingly, before sighing.

“Just- try not to get yourself killed.” He instructs tiredly. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in silent mockery, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. The bandage across his shoulder, looping over his collar bone, is hidden by the clean shirt Mrs Hudson brought earlier. The sling and tight support for his wrist is less easily hidden, already noticed by many from the Yard, there to check on Greg, who bears a black eye and a sprain support around his right ankle. Sherlock took the brunt of the attack, standing in front of John at the last instant, earning himself a stab to he shoulder, wrist crushed by the force of the perpetrator’s run-up. He crashed into John, who fell backwards, smacking his temple on a loose brick and being knocked clean unconscious. Meaning it was up to Greg to tackle the bastard, disarm him, and cuff him, them radio for backup and an ambulance.

 

They’d been treated then released. Greg was, in essence, fine- other than a limp and sore skull. Nothing could really be done for Sherlock’s stab wound- nothing important had been severed, it had just needed five stitches- it had been bandaged, his arm immobilised and wrist strapped up, and then he, too, had been free to wait for John to wake up.

 

Which was taking a hell of a long time. Hence the argument.

“It’d be much appreciated if you’d realise that you aren’t immortal.” Greg stated sarcastically. Sherlock sighed.

“As I said before; I have a survival instinct. If I didn’t, I’d obviously be dead by now.”

Greg gave an involuntary flinch at that.

“Not funny.”

“Not meant to be.”

“Mr Holmes? DI Lestrade?”

 

They both turned in unison, facing the nurse who had called them.

“Doctor Watson’s waking up now. He’s asking for you.” He informed them. “If you’ll follow me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from this quote:
> 
> "Our lives are pretty calm. Merging on the freeway in the closest you get to risking your life. So what's missing now is that primal emotion of being scared to death, and I think that's why people crave thrills like roller coasters or scary movies. They give you the chance to feel this very primal emotion in a very controlled environment."
> 
> -Oren Peli


End file.
